


Lovely, Dark and Deep

by Elle_gy



Category: Bleach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_gy/pseuds/Elle_gy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wishes he could pull the shady sky with its diamond holes around himself and indulge his burdened eyelids. The hollow's reiatsu continues to feel stronger, however, and there are many, many things to do before he sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovely, Dark and Deep

Lovely, Dark and Deep

He doesn’t need the call from Urahara. He’s taught himself to slam the foreign reiatsu into his awareness much like a rouge pin being rent into his foot through the force of his own step. With such a repulsive spiritual signature pricking at the backs of his eyes, there is little he can do to keep them closed - he doesn’t even bother to maintain the façade of sleep; there isn’t anyone to maintain it for. He always wakes up stinging and vaguely prepared.

His hand flies to his bedside table (though the gap between the bed and the table seems much more _chasmic_ at night) and fumbles to find his glasses. The movement isn’t even ritualistic; it’s automatic, though it still feels a little cruel to press the metal and glass up to the sleep-softened skin on his face.

There isn’t much that comes into focus with the addition of corrective lenses, simply a colorless cube of a room with shadows crosshatching the walls to form endless grey grids.

Initially the hollow reiatsu feels fairly insignificant, but he can’t be sure because he’s still in the state of half-awareness (where time is augmented, walls don’t exist and the morning won’t ever come) that results from being unpleasantly jolted awake at ungodly hours of the night. He decides, though it is barely a decision, to wait until the call to leave – he just needs a few minutes more safely hidden in his fortress of sheets, which feels more impenetrable than his reishi shields ever do.

In the wheeling waiting moments, his cannot ignore the shades of emotions making themselves known on the blank canvas of his freshly wakened mind. Annoyance comes first like it always does. At the lack of sleep, most notably – he gets little enough of _that_ as it is; at the hollows – they will come and come and come until his flesh has rejoined the earth and then they will continue coming and he can’t stop it, no matter how irritating ( _terrifying)_ that is. And then, in the most primal moments during the dark hours, at the shadows standing silently against the walls – the longer he stares at them, the more solid and real and imposing they seem.

Annoyance fades quickly in the long midnight minutes and he is left with emptiness and creeping fear. Not fear of the hollow (god no. He had faced his worst nightmares and they _weren’t hollows.)_ Perhaps fear was an inappropriate descriptor, though whatever _it_ was did make him scared. Perhaps it was more of an acutely aching apprehension. Perhaps he was a little concerned that he would keep needing to get more powerful lenses in his glasses and the battle scars on his body would continue to pile up and his homework would just get harder and his bow arm would keep getting sorer and the hollows would continue to come and everything would continue to concentrate – and there would never be someone there (in the grand emptiness of his apartment) to grab his hand before he faces the spiraling world.

A text comes.

He stands up _too quickly, spinning head, sits back down, stands up again_ and reaches for the phone on the nightstand. He is glad that it is a text this time. At hours like these, when melancholy is thick and humid around him, Urahara’s voice turns to grinding in his ears. He is also glad that the excuse provided was acceptable (“ _Really, Urahara-san, last time you called at night I nearly shot the phone in surprise”_ ) because he doesn’t think he could tell Urahara that hearing another human voice makes him weak.

_Small hollow. Please take care of immediately._

Uryū snorts a little at the text. Urahara didn’t even bother to be specific with the location. In fact, he didn’t even bother with the location at all. Of course he could easily find it himself. He was very good at handling reiatsu, after all. But really it is the _principle_ of being awakened early in the night to deal with yet another Shinigami failure and then being expected to go find the problem himself _alone_ that bothers him. Though, he would be even more bothered by the _principle_ of some Shinigami coming for his head or a hollow eating some other’s loved one, so he resigns himself to the frequent late-night adventures.

He looks down at his flannel pajama pants. They aren’t even white. And yet he can’t muster up the…well…the pride to go hunt for his elaborate uniform and strip out of his still-soft clothing. The pride exists of course –like how his eyes are blue and his name is Uryū and he lives by the pride of the Quincy – it has just remained asleep, or at least a little groggy. He tries to convince himself that he is saving up whatever active pride is pulsing in his leaden limbs for the Hollow out there.

It isn’t pride, however, but embarrassment that forces him to search around for a shirt or something to cover his torso with. He isn’t Kurosaki, for goodness’ sake, and he has enough intelligence and too little self-confidence to go frolicking around Karakura without a shirt on, even if he is entirely alone.

A pile of clean laundry sits next to his bed. He fishes out a hooded zip-up sweatshirt (at least _this_ one is white) and almost guiltily zips it up before turning his attention to the window.

The shadows stretching their limbs against the walls makes the window look like it is set behind iron bars. For a fleeting, childish instant, he wonders if he will be able to pry the window open from beneath the dusky hands. The instant passes quickly, though, and he finds himself shaking his head ( _long hair grazing gently against his jawline)_ to rid himself of juvenile nightmares.

He is, of course, able to fling the window open with little exerted effort. With perhaps a little reluctance, he jumps out to meet the night.

…

The navy air is surprisingly softer, safer and warmer than the air in his apartment. He wishes he could pull the shady sky with its diamond holes around himself and indulge his burdened eyelids. The hollow’s reiatsu continues to feel stronger, however, and there are many _many_ things to do before he sleeps.

He tracks the reiatsu to the far South side of Karakura Town (he unfortunately lives on the North), whizzing past sentry-still buildings as he makes his way through the silent city. His glasses slip as he is moving; he pushes them back up with two extended fingers. It hasn’t really ever bothered him, his glasses being too lose – he touches the curves of his nose and cheekbones as he adjusts them, and the contact reminds him that he _exists_ and isn’t simply a conscience watching the world through two small rectangles of glass.

He arrives at a small park. As much as he expects it, it always angers him to discover yet again that the hollow intended to prey on small children. If he weren’t so enervated he would be burning with chivalrous fury. As he is, the most he can muster is yielding dissatisfaction.

The playground and swing set appear to be abandoned and the park is laden with silence. If he focuses hard enough, he can see the foul strands of hollow reiatsu dripping across the play equipment like an abhorrent web. The hollow remains hidden, which means two things to Uryū: it must indeed be very small, even perhaps human-sized, and it must have some semblance of intelligence.

The warmth of the glittering sky cannot dull the eeriness that has settled heavily on the park.

Uryū isn’t scared, per say, but he also isn’t stupid. Instead of charging into the park and demanding the hollow show itself, he lets his reiatsu pulse lightly, trying to lure out some sound or reaction.

Nothing moves.

He begins to slowly circle the perimeter of the play set, stopping next from the swings. He cannot help but feel his footsteps are like little earthquakes against the tense atmosphere.

He breathes deeply ( _he guesses he forgot to do so beforehand)_ and moves to take another step, when –

_Clink_

_-_ He hears the smallest sound _two wine glasses (why does he even have two?) bumping together as he pulls them from the dishwasher_ ring from the swing closest to him. He stares at it (eyes wider than he would like to admit) and sees that the swing has begun to leisurely move back and forth.

His fingers tremble in the slightest.

_Clink_

Now the other swing is moving, its pace slightly quicker than the other.

He takes a step back and watches the swings. It doesn’t make sense. He waits to hear another ring.

His own breath tears holes in his ears.

The swings begin to slow and he breaks his gaze away from them. It was foolish, he decides, to get caught up on _swings_ when he should just fire some arrows and be done with the whole escapade.

He summons his bow – _tearing up his arm the skin splitting like ripped orange rinds juicy sticky blood running out_ –and suddenly it makes sense.

He immediately throws up a reishi shield in front of him and drops his arm to examine the wound. A jagged laceration runs up the outside of his bow arm, already weeping onto his sweat shirt. It’s nothing serious (though it does sting a little) – a paper cut compared to some of the other wounds he’s sustained – but it does annoy him that once again he’ll be sporting a new injury on his bow arm.

He looks around but is unable to find the projectile that the hollow launched at him. It must either be very small, he reasons, or it must dissipate upon impact. By the angle of the gash on his arm, he is able to trace the trajectory of the object back to the playground. _Wonderful._

He resummons his bow _pushing the reishi down his prickling arm, some beading at the fissure and leaking out, blue joining the red_ and shatters his shield. He unleashes a rain of arrows at the entirety of the play set, hoping to encourage the hollow out of its twisted game of hide and seek.

He hears a low hiss come from underneath the top of the playground: there is a small, plastic covering over the slide (probably brightly colored, but it was impossible to tell) and he sees a hand poke out from underneath it. He cannot see the rest of the hollow, so he surmises that it has been tucked up underneath the covering, waiting for children to stray underneath it.

Uryū fires an arrow at the hand and hears a wet thump as it hits.

The creature’s hiss jumps into a supernatural octave and it is all that he can do to keep from dropping his bow and covering his ears.

The shock renders him unable to move, and he watches as the creature slowly emerges from underneath the roof.

Uryū realizes that the hand he shot has _too many fingers._ An arm follows it, and then another arm, and then another – all the limbs are thin, pale and sinewy - purple veins and red sores and too many hands and too many fingers adorn them. Using the multiple appendages, the hollow begins to pull itself on top of the roof.

Finally a head appears - round, hairless and lumpy, sitting upon a long neck at an impossible angle. Uryū waits for the creature’s eyes to search him out, but then realizes in horror (as the head pivots freely on the telescopic neck to find him) that he is staring at two mounds of flesh where its eyes should be. The mouth is a long, jagged line right beneath them, and it begins to open –

Wide -

_Too wide -_

And Uryū leaps away just before the ground is torn up by tiny little needles.

The creature closes its mouth again and the assault halts.

Shaken into action by his close escape, he fires openly on the creature, hoping that the arrows will be enough to fell it. This time, the creature’s shriek is powerful enough to topple him over. He instinctively closes his eyes as he falls, though upon impact he wrenches them open, hoping to see the hollow dying or even already gone.

The hollow stands only a few feet from him.

Even with its body littered with blue arrows, the sight is one of night terrors. The full extent of the figure resembles some horrible monster wefted together from corpses – arms and hands stitched on, eyes and ears ripped off, mouth widened and brimming with rows and rows of teeth–

Uryū is paralyzed as it advances. Fear thrums through his mind, causing his head to pound and ache. For a petrifying moment, he watches as the amalgamation of limbs crawls closer to him, the eyeless mounds fixated on him and the cavernous mouth stretching and

And then he remembers that he is a Quincy.

With a wildly shaking arm, he shoots an arrow directly into the hollow’s mouth.

The enemy plummets silently. Already the rotten reiatsu is fizzling away and Uryū knows that it is dead.

He stands up _too quickly, head spinning, sits back down, stands up again_ and realizes that his heart is hammering so erratically it hurts more than his arm does. He reaches to push his glasses back up his nose.

The hollow…wasn’t that strong, he realizes. It was simply unique.

…

With the monster gone, the night air returns to warm velvet. It is much too nice outside and the shadows across his walls remind him of many-limbed creatures so he accepts that he is not going to return.

Besides, the adrenalin has quit pounding through his veins and his limbs grow more cumbersome as he begins to walk. He makes it to the far side of the park and collapses into a heap on the lone bench.

He slouches – because no one is looking here – and lets his head rest on the back of the bench. Not sensing any malignant reiatsu, he allows his eyes to slip shut. The natural sounds of the night are slowly returning and airily caressing his ears. For a brief moment, he is content.

But the initial relief of surviving recedes and he is again plunged back into reality. He might be here again tomorrow. He might be here again the day after. He might be flying through the night for years and years and still –

Still the fingers on the walls wait for him around the windowsill.

The desolation is suffocating. But it has always been suffocating, and the lack of breath is something he has grown used to. The pressure around his neck does not falter, but he lets the breeze graze his hair and it is enough rare comfort to encourage him to sleep.

He gets as far as half-unconsciousness.

“You dead?”

A gruff voice yanks him from the golden comfort of slumber. He doesn’t need to see who the voice belongs to, because he already knows, but he forces his eyes open anyway so he can at least _glare_ at Kurosaki despite his compromised position.

And his first rational though is: _I must look like shit if Kurosaki is worrying._

But he guesses that Kurosaki isn’t used to seeing him in his pajamas unceremoniously slumped on a park bench. He is a little taken aback that he didn’t at least sense Kurosaki’s immense reiatsu, but then he remembers - there isn’t an immense reiatsu to sense. There hasn’t been one for about a year now.

He sits up and sweeps his eyes (slowly, making sure the other is _completely_ aware that he is also judging) over Kurosaki’s figure. It seems he isn’t the only one roaming around playgrounds in his sleepwear.

“Do you usually sleep on park benches?” There is something sharp and accusatory in Kurosaki’s tone, and he can’t help but retaliate.

“Do you usually wake up strangers on park benches?” Kurosaki cringes slightly when he calls him a stranger, and Uryū drops his head a little in silent apology. Kurosaki seems to accept it and plops down to sit next to him.

He is quiet for a moment, and then asks (trying to sound very nonchalant, Uryū thinks) “What were you doing out here this late?”

Uryū is sure Ichigo already knows the answer. As much as he likes to call Kurosaki an idiot, he knows the boy actually isn’t one. But he decides to indulge him – it isn’t often he speaks to people, really – and simply says, “A hollow. And you?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He wants to argue and point out the drooping darkness beneath Kurosaki’s eyes, but he supposes he isn’t much better and decides to nod instead.

“Are you-” the question sounds hesitant, yet Uryū can detect a latent energy in the tone, “are you happy?”

He is unprepared for Kurosaki’s question. He looks at the boy sitting next to him – he’s lowered his head into his hands, his fingers playing with the most disobedient strands of his ungovernable hair.

_Are you happy?_

It doesn’t make sense. What type of happy did he mean? Happy right there in the arms of the sky? Happy when Urahara woke him up to fight monsters? Happy when he walked home alone after school in the afternoons?

It is not a concise question and one of the last things he would expect to hear Kurosaki asking. He cannot help but feel that the question must be important. The taciturn ex-Shinigami didn’t usually go spouting off anything philosophical, though when he did he had a tendency to be upset.

He intends to handle the question quite delicately.

“I…what?” Intelligent, as always.

Kurosaki flings his arms wide and raises his head with a jerk. He hangs his eyebrows low and yells, “Are you happy now?”

_Are you happy now?_

I hate Shinigami. I hate Shinigami. I hate Shinigami I hate Shinigami Ihateshinigamiihateihate-

And suddenly it all makes sense.

To be stronger than Kurosaki Ichigo. It had been all he ever wanted, apparently.

Kurosaki is still staring at him with that awful frown (that had once been reserved for enemies – oh, wait…) and he can no longer stand the icy fury in his gaze. He looks at the ground, while his uninjured arm absentmindedly settles on his chest.

He realizes, after Kurosaki realizes, that his hand is settled right above an old, neat little scar on his torso and its twin on the flesh of his back. He drops his hand and Kurosaki drops his arms, and Uryū hopes that his answer is clear enough.

“Are you?” Uryū asks in response, keeping his eyes trained on his own bare feet.

To never see spirits again. It had been all Ichigo ever wanted, apparently.

He looks up at Kurosaki now, and finds the mountains of outrage above his eyebrows have flattened into little valleys of rue. His elbows are resting on his knees again, and his eyes search Uryū’s face gingerly. Uryū finally allows their eyes to meet, and he feels – with a certain grief – that he recognizes the emotion that dulls the harsh lines of Kurosaki’s face.

It is loneliness.

Kurosaki is surrounded by people to the same degree in which Uryū isn’t surrounded by them. And yet they share a similar fear, he thinks, and a similar pain. He just never expected Kurosaki to be plagued with solitude.

An impulse instructs him to reach out and touch the boy. Slowly, he raises his right arm, though never breaking eye-contact with Kurosaki. He is sure that Kurosaki knows what he is doing, and the small wrinkles pulling at the edge of his eyes tells him that Kurosaki is _pleased_ with what he is doing.

His arm moves slowly across the gulf between them glacially, as to give Kurosaki time to reject it. Kurosaki makes no such move-

And his Quincy cross grabs the light of some distant star –

And he can’t move his arm any farther.

The cross hangs off his wrist, barely visible save for the reflections glinting on its tiny spires. It looks as delicate and tiny as ever, feather-light and graceful on a tiny feminine chain –

\- it reminds him that he is a Quincy – the last Quincy – the most alone Quincy. The Quincy cannot redeem or create; the Quincy – he – can only destroy. He should do nothing – can do nothing! – for the broken Kurosaki because he is also just too broken.

His arm plummets before reaching Kurosaki’s cheek.

He stands up hastily and looks towards the sky so Kurosaki does not see the guilt dragging at the edges of his mouth. He is neither embarrassed by the intention of his act nor the abortion of it; he is more ashamed by his shortcomings.

Kurosaki deserves to find comfort with someone so much more whole. Someone who has promises to keep.

“Good night, Kurosaki.”

He turns to leave, glancing over his shoulder before leaping into the breeze.

He climbs back in through his window, knowing the shadows on the walls will lock it tight behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
